The Faint Blue Glow of Your Dark Brown Eyes
by ghostinpajamas
Summary: Not a good night for Tony Stark. He can't sleep, but then again, neither can one Bruce Banner... Oneshot, slightly slash-y but nowhere near as slash-y as it could be. Pairings are both Bruce/Tony and Tony/Pepper. Rated T for language and situational stuff, I guess.


It wasn't dark enough to sleep.

Tony Stark's fucking heart was keeping him awake, all because the damn thing glowed. Why, he kept having to ask himself, did he design the thing to fucking _glow _? Tony was well aware of the fact that he couldn't get to sleep unless the room was pitch black, he was dead drunk, or he'd just spend a copious amount of time screwing someone. None of these three standards were being met tonight, and, therefore, Tony was just not gonna get any sleep.

Which really sucked, because he wasn't in the best of moods.

Tony had, actually, spent the majority of his evening brooding. Pepper was gone, doing whatever Pepper business she may have been doing, and she hadn't left on good terms with him. No, that was accusatory. Tony rolled his eyes. _They_ weren't on good terms with each_ other_. There. Either way, everything had caught up to Tony again once she had left. It happened sometimes. Pepper yelled, he yelled back, she deemed him useless or a disappointment and then left him sitting there with his goddamned thoughts. He was a scientist, of course, so he kind of needed a hyper-analytical brain, but Tony got really fucking sick of thoughts sometimes. One thing always led to another with them.

Like, for instance, being called worthless by his lover could often lead to introspection as to whether or not he really was worthless.

Naturally, that led to him deciding that, yes, he was.

And that led to brainstorming all the ways in which he was worthless (drinking, womanizing, drinking, failing at everything, seeming like a terrible human being due to the insecurities piled precariously on top of one another and always building up, drinking, and appearing not to care about anything or anyone when he really, _really_ did).

And all those reasons plus more led to one Tony Stark, lying wired awake in bed, envisioning a gun in his hand being pointed at his face. How quickly it could all be over. He'd already disappointed everyone so many times; what would one more failure be?

Well, he wouldn't fuck up again after that, for sure.

Tony was just wondering where he would be able to find a gun and possibly a drink – neither of which could be that far, in a tower inhabited by the alcoholic heir of a company which produced weapons of mass destruction, as well as Natasha Romanoff – when someone knocked on the door. Three concise knocks.

"Tony? You in there?" It was Bruce. Great. The Green Giant was interrupting his half-assed suicide plans.

No, Bruce was okay. Maybe more than okay. "Come on in, then." Tony grunted. Bruce shuffled into the room, which was still depressingly well-lit by Tony's chest. "What did you need?"

"I was just looking – were you trying to sleep? I'm sorry, I should've just –"

"It's fine. You were looking for something, you said?" Tony sighed. "What was it?"

"Just… duct tape." Bruce replied, scratching the back of his head.

"For what?"

"For… taping… things?" Bruce said. He gave an awkward shrug. Tony sat up.

"It's gonna be on your floor, down the hall from... actually should be a ton of convenient shit like that in the desk in your room." Tony said.

Bruce looked embarrassed. "Alright. Thanks anyways." He turned to leave, and then turned back. "You alright, Stark?" He asked. "You don't look like it."

Tony paused. He considered lying, but why should he if he was gonna put a bullet through his sleep-deprived brain anyways? "Actually, I'm not. I'm hideously depressed. But it's nothing for your to worry about."

"Why?" Bruce asked, but before Tony could respond to that in any way his teammate – friend – had walked over and sat down on the end of the bed, across from Tony. And before Tony knew it, he was spilling his whole damn life story to his teammate-friend. And never once during the whole rant did Bruce interrupt to comment on how that one thing _had_ been irresponsible, or how Tony _should_ be able to control his own drinking habits, et cetera. He just listened.

Well, and there was at one point some hand holding that Tony would've thought really gay, if he really cared. And then maybe some hugging that Tony would usually think was overly awkward, but, actually, he had been oddly fine with. Oh. And there may or may not have been a kiss. Which Tony surprisingly didn't have a definable response to. One thing at a time, he figured.

Either way, after all that – and a brief exchange of "You look tired, stark", "It's the goddamn glowing", "Bet you could cover it with some duct tape"– Tony woke up and realized that he had been asleep for some undetermined amount of time.

The room was still aglow, and, in the blue light, Tony noticed a roll of silver duct tape sitting on the nearby nightstand. Guess Bruce had found it after all. He was about to reach for the tape when the door opened again, without a knock this time. Bruce?

Nope. Pepper.

"Hey… Tony." She said quietly.

"Hey, Pep." He replied. His voice was gravelly, so he cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry." She whispered.

"Me too."

Pepper put down whatever she'd been lugging around and slipped out of her heels before coming over to embrace Tony.

"I didn't mean anything I said to you, Tony." She said, her voice in his ear.

"I know. Neither did I. As usual." Pepper settled herself onto the mattress next to Tony, and both pairs of arms tightened around waist and shoulders. It was safe. It was Pepper and Tony, and she was the only thing he had left, and she was there and he had nothing to worry about. Never mind that he'd spent all evening hating himself and planning his death and crying and kissing; none of it mattered. Pepper was there and everything was fine for another night.

He would have to thank Bruce for the duct tape in the morning, though. It was a nice, friendly gesture.


End file.
